Page 66 of Duke of Moonstone
“It means a person’s face. Their expression.”
“Why not just say face?”
“Because the author wished to sound impressive.”
“Did it work?”
Frances smiled despite herself. “I shall let you decide.”
She continued reading. The knight admitted his feelings. The lady was skeptical but moved. A storm formed on the horizon, as storms often did at such moments, and the knight offered the lady his cloak.
Alexander said nothing.
He sat beside her with his hands resting on his knees, listening attentively. She knew he was focused because his breathing had settled into a quiet, even pattern and because he had not moved, shifted, cleared his throat or made any motion to leave or reach for an excuse to return to his study, ledgers, and the safe, solitary work that occupied his evenings.
He was simply here. Sitting beside her. Listening to a story about a knight, a lady, and a storm.
Do not look at him.
She did not look at him. She read aloud as the words traveled from the page to her voice, filling the quiet room. Emily listened, resting her chin on her fists, while Alexander remained silent. The fire crackled gently, and the moment seemed to linger, creating a sense of almost peace.
“Is there more?” Emily asked when Frances reached the end of the chapter.
“There is. But it is getting late.”
“One more page?”
“Tomorrow evening. I promise.”
Emily groaned but did not argue. She pushed herself up from the rug, collected her book, and padded toward the door in her stockings. She stopped at the threshold and looked back.
“Goodnight, Frances. Goodnight—” She looked at Alexander, and something tentative crossed her face, and then she said, very quietly, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Emily,” he said.
The child disappeared down the hallway. Her footsteps faded on the carpet.
The library was very quiet.
Frances closed the book in her lap, her fingers pressing against the leather cover. She knew she should stand, say goodnight, and leave, heading upstairs. Yet she hesitated, reluctant to think about the warmth along her right side where he sat, or the two inches that had subtly shrunk to one inch during the reading without her noticing.
“She is happy,” Alexander said.
Frances looked at him before she could stop herself. He was staring at the fire, his profile cut sharp in the candlelight. His jaw was set but not tightly. His hands were still on his knees.
“She is,” Frances said.
“You have done that.” He did not look at her. “Whatever ease she has found in this house... you are the reason for it.”
The words landed in her chest and settled there, warm and heavy.
“She is easy to love,” Frances said. “That is all.”
He turned his head. Their eyes met. The distance between them on the settee was minimal, and his gaze held hers steadily, making the air feel thin.
Look away. You must look away.
“Goodnight,” she said and stood, and the book nearly slipped from her fingers before she caught it against her hip.
